


Someone Has Blundered (Shivering and Quivering)

by dr_mrs_vandertrampp, tobeaskeleton (orphan_account)



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia, To the Lighthouse - Virginia Woolf
Genre: Angst, Crack Treated Seriously, Depression, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, Genderswap, Lesbian Character, Literature
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-02-08 18:30:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12870489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dr_mrs_vandertrampp/pseuds/dr_mrs_vandertrampp, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/tobeaskeleton
Summary: Mrs. Ramsay is in a loveless marriage, Lily Briscoe paints her fondly, and Denise and Mac try to immortalize their love. It's an endless cycle of grief.





	Someone Has Blundered (Shivering and Quivering)

Over Sunday brunch, Mrs. Ramsay sat across from Denise Reynolds, regarding her angular features as she sipped from a tea cup. Denise, Mrs. Ramsay realized, was nearly the age of a spinstress, and yet she seemed unconcerned with marriage. She was a respected enough woman that she could get away with this, living only with her maid, Veronica Macdonald, or “Mac” as she was nicknamed often.

Spectacles perched on top of his nose, Mr. Ramsay sat reading a newspaper. 

“What do you think, dear?” Mrs. Ramsay asked her husband. Her and Denise had been discussing the magnolias that were in bloom that season.

He huffed. “About what?”

“The flowers, darling.”

“Oh,” Mr. Ramsay said. “They are nice, yes.” She furrowed her eyebrows together, gazing at her husband in wonder of how unconcerned he often was with anything related to her.

“They remind me of a poem I once read,” Denise said. “What was it? And ’tis my faith that every flower/Enjoys the air it breathes?” 

Mrs. Ramsay almost envied her and her ability to freely enjoy art and poetry, much like Lily Briscoe who painted freely and was not married. There were moments where she considered living for herself instead of her husband and children, but they were just that. Moments.

Besides, she considered what their parents might think of their unmarried daughters. For a man, it meant nothing to his character, but to a woman it meant she had no character at all. Mrs. Ramsay took another sip of her black lemon tea which had fallen luke warm. 

“Have I ever introduced you,” Mrs. Ramsay began. “To my friend, Miss. Briscoe? She is an excellent painter. You must pose for her sometime.”

Denise looked up from her plate. “Oh,” she said. “Perhaps, I will.”

“Oh, dear, would you mind watching the children?” Mrs. Ramsay asked her husband. “I would like to keep Miss. Reynolds and Miss. Briscoe company. Painting can be dreadfully solitary.”

“And it is so for a reason,” Mr. Ramsay said. “Why spend time with unmarried women, anyway?” She saw his pride fall.

“It’s friendship,” Mrs. Ramsay sad. “If you have friends, then why shouldn’t I?”

“You have a husband, children,” he argued.

“Perhaps I should go,” Denise started. 

“No.” Mrs. Ramsay looked defiant like a child. “I would expect that this situation can resolve easily.”

“I cannot stop you, darling,” Mr. Ramsay said with another passive aggressive sigh. She frowned at his final response, but did not argue with him further, knowing it could not end well.

-

Seeing Lily Briscoe’s approaching figure just before dinner caused Mrs. Ramsay to swell with excitement. She remembered a time when she had more companionship than her children and husband, a time when she only loved woman, of course, in the purest fashion. Love as in loving youth, loving friendship and kisses on the cheeks.

Mr. Ramsay crossed his arms and looked at Lily as well, only at a window from a separate side of the house as his wife. He never quite understood seeing himself, though Lily had depicted him before. It made his chest seize with some sort of unordinary emotion- something mixed with recognition and disgust. In his head, he knew he was accomplished, respected, but in a painting he was just his features and the icy stoicism they held. How silly it was to think of the perception of Lily Briscoe! Regardless, though, he did. And often. And he thought of his wife, as well, and how Lily clearly saw Mrs. Ramsay’s beauty as much and as strongly as she did. Only, she expressed it. Through artwork, she expressed what he could only dream of.

He went to see his wife, maybe sway her not to go to watch the painting of Denise Reynolds, but when he left the room, she was already out the door. He wasn’t about to chase her down, stupidly, like a pet. So he stood, brooding. Awkward.

-

Lily Briscoe often wondered what it would be like to be the subject of a painting herself, but she figured she would never know. An unmarried painter with little money to her name, and yet she had the nerve to think of herself being a subject! 

She often was struck with nerves, feeling too inferior to even express Mrs. Ramsay aptly in her artwork. It was frustrating- to see someone and love them so deeply but be unable to express it.

Lily recalled an evening where Mrs. Ramsay went to her and held her tiny hand when she was distressed over her own self worth. And, while it had made Lily feel better, her chest was lifted in a way she knew she had to bury inside of her in favor of looking at men. 

The thing was, men meant nothing to her. She was mostly unconcerned by this until a sly comment would be thrown in, suggesting her marrying in the future or finding a man. And if it seemed like she was indifferent toward these comments, it’s probably because she was. She had no urge to marry any time soon or, well, ever.

“Lily,” Mrs. Ramsay said, her voice sweet and melodic. “Would you like to call Denise here or?”

“I would prefer to go to her’s,” Lily said. “It makes much more sense to paint someone in their natural element.”

And so they travelled to the home of Denise Reynolds. It was beautiful, but modest, eloquent, but with heart to it. Without kids to care for, Denise was wealthier than Mrs. Ramsay, living off of her inheritance while also doing a bit of freelance writing. It seemed like a peaceful life, but one without duty. Mrs. Ramsay could not imagine not being needed at all times…

She knocked twice with the knocker. Hobknocker. Yes!

“Hello,” Denise said. Her light brown curls were braided behind her ears, making her appear youthful. “It is nice to finally meet you, Lily Briscoe. I dare say you are as lovely as Mrs. Ramsay described.” Mrs. Ramsay blushed at the comment. Denise took Lily’s hand and placed a kiss to it. 

Lily was flustered, but gained her composure and stepped inside. Mac was there, drinking tea on the sofa, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders. It was an untraditional uniform for a maid, that was sure.

“If you could…” Denise hesitated. “I want me and Mac. Together. Can you do that for me?”

A slow understanding overcame Lily’s face. “Yes, of course.” Mrs. Ramsay’s eyes darted between Mac and Denise, not comprehending their obvious intimacy. 

Lily did not even have to think to begin creating. That love, that feeling her subjects were conveying was already so deeply ingrained inside of her, and it all came out at once. Denise sat, her hands in Macs, the two of them looking into each other's eyes. The amount of trust that must take, Lily reflected, to stare at one another for so long. To be that comfortable. 

And as she continued, dawn fell onto Mrs. Ramsay. She stood from her place of witness with a start.

“I have to… go get some fresh air,” she said, quickly scurrying out the door. Like a rat haha. Scurry scurry. 

Denise and Mac turned their respective gazes and Lily followed her friend, concern etched upon her face. 

“Whatever is wrong?” Lily asked. Mrs. Ramsay stood with her arms crossed against her chest, looking at a coy pond. 

“You realized, didn’t you?” Mrs. Ramsay asked.

“Realized what?”

“That they were lovers.”

“I-” Lily began. But she didn’t know how to finish. “I can finish this piece another time.

-

That night, Mrs. Ramsay slept, facing away from her husband on the corner of the bed. Both of them, facing away at their little corners, an invisible barrier between them. 

If Mr. Ramsay should ever want to wrap his arm around her and hold her, he never did. If he ever wanted to tenderly touch her, whisper to her, he never did. He probably thought of nothing but his own balls, and yet, Mrs. Ramsay figured that this was love. This was marriage.

But she had seen Denise and Mac. That was love. This was…. she had no idea anymore.


End file.
